Friday, 17 December 2021

Beast of Bodmin - my commissioned poem for Cornwall AONB

When my seventh poetry collection, Mama Amazonica, won Simon Armitage's inaugural Laurel Prize, I received an extra gift – a commission to write a poem about my favourite Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty in Britain. I knew immediately I would write about Bodmin Moor – I now live in a deep valley just beneath the south-east corner of it. Every horse-lane bordered by high Cornish hedges opens to views of tors at the gate gaps. During strict lockdown I would walk the lanes and look up at always visible Sharptor and the Cheesewring. As soon as we were allowed to venture four miles by car, Brian my husband drove us to Kilmar Tor, off the bridle path that also leads to Hawkstor and Trewartha Tor. It's a steep climb to Kilmar Tor and got us fitter as it became a regular haunt. From the top, which is the third highest point in Cornwall, we can see Brown Willy, the highest tor, far across the other side of the moor, we can see Dartmoor on the horizon the other way, and the north and south coastlines. All the fauna and flora and land formations mentioned in my poem are loved discoveries. From the stonechats, skylarks, and bog asphodels, to the ponies we saw galloping across the plateau between Bearah Tor and the secret waterhole. I did what I love to do, which is to watch the pageants, while Brian took photos. I'm thrilled that Cornwall AONB have set my poem to aerial footage of the moor, grateful thanks to them, to Fin Davis for the film, and to Bodmin Way for the narration. I now have a series of moor and beast poems. Here is 'Beast of Bodmin':

Beast of Bodmin



You say I don’t exist, that the panther skull you found

in the river is fake, my alien origins

betrayed by an Indian cockroach egg-case

nestled like a ruby in my brain.


You say that walkers have heard me howl as if caught

in a trap or calling for a mate. That I escaped

from a private estate where I grew too dangerous to keep,

that I kill sheep by skinning them face-first.


That I could be pure myth – the Butterfly-Jaguar

with eyespots on my wings to frighten off humans,

that I wear a pelt of moon-moths by night.




Few have found my pugmarks, but they are homes to vanishing insects.


You see no gouges on the rowans,

but my claws are gorse where stonechats nest


and the spaces between my paws are tussocks

where skylarks hatch.


Each of my hairs is a recording of birdsong.




Sometimes you glimpse me crouched on a lightning fork,

my roar thundering downhill.


You say that my face is vast as the moorland sky,

that a raincloud parts

to give me eyes that glow in the dark.


You call me beast, but I am the hazel and oak woods

that once costumed the moor,

my veins streams that feed the valleys.


My yawn is the shaggy mists of sunrise,

my spit the lichen rags on trees.




I emerged from the swamp like a newly-cast mirror,

my rosettes barely visible in peat fur.


I am the curator of my own heaven

hung with paintings of starry nights

that whirl on my glossy coat.


My rosettes are not your quarries or mines

but the roses of pulsars, medals from eco-wars!


Yet all you see are rail-holes in granite sleepers of disused railways.


Extinct plants flex their colours when I run!




I pass through the understorey of the ghost-forest

like a photo in the developer tray, a shadow printed

with earth’s apex language.

Yet you scan snaps of me and say they’re forged.


I am the codex of unnamed species, the librarian of lost trees.


I am written in rare fonts of ambrosial inks,

in bog asphodels and heath orchids, marsh violets and sundew.

My belly is plush as sphagnum.

My ears are cists and cairns.


My breath is the wind that whips your face

and cradles the kestrel.




My heart is set in the slope like a reed-framed waterhole.


When the feral ponies come to bathe in me

I make them new as cave paintings that have just sprung to life.


My glance is the sheen on the stallion’s silver coat,

the spots that mark him as a leopard-horse!


His mare bursts from the surface, her eyes blazing,

her bracken coat streaked with amnion.




You say I don’t exist, but my bones are old as granite,

my marrow clear as the brooks that tumble

down to the valleys. My flesh is feldspar and quartz,

my tail is hoarfrost and fern flame.




You say I never existed, but my ancestors once roamed these heights,

their fangs became icicles dripping from cheesewrings,

their fur melted like a drift.


I could be stem cells

in the vial of a Frozen Zoo, waiting

a hundred years to awake


in my city of glass towers,

my smoking biobank.

I could be an immortal leopard


in a deep-frozen forest, surrounded by

lynx, wolf, deer – all of us dreaming

of a new Ice Age to cool the earth.


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